“You may add Ivy’s first, best, and closest friend, as well as Poisoned Ivy’s trainer, to the list,” Ives continued, listing Basile’s qualities. “Is it just me, or is the doorbell ringing?” he asked, frowning after listening intently for a few seconds.
“No, you’re right,” Ottavio confirmed. “I heard it, too.” He stopped his husband from leaving his seat with a gesture. “I’ll answer that. Please finish your breakfast.” Heading toward the hallway, the man opened the door, blinking in confusion at the woman and the kid standing in the doorway. “Good morning. How can I help you?”
“Hello, I’m Mary Johnson, Social Services,” the woman replied in a flat voice, then pushed the kid into the house. “And this is Galen Wade. I checked, and this is the right address,” she continued. “I’m looking for Ottavio Sforza.”
“You are looking at him,” the answer came in a slightly irritated voice, then dropped to a shaky whisper as the man’smind registered two words that gave him nightmares every night: Social Services. “How can I help you? Look, the babies…”
The social worker let out an exasperated sigh. “Look, Mister Sforza, I don’t have time for chit-chat. I need to get to three other cases by the end of the day, plus a huge pile of paperwork to fill out. Speaking of which,” she shoved a clipboard into the man’s hands. “I need your signature on these.”
"Hold on a second," Ottavio raised his voice slightly. "You nearly burst in here, treat me like dirt, then shove some papers in my face to... what? Sign them without knowing what's inside?" He took a deep breath, struggling to keep his temper in check. "Listen, ma'am, I don’t sign anything without understanding it, so either start explaining or get off my property. The kid can stay.”
“He stays anyway because he’s yours,” the social worker said matter-of-factly. “His mother was Deanna Wade; she died when he was five. His maternal aunt and her husband can no longer care for him—they recently had their third child. They’ve been caring for him for the past eight years, while you…” She paused, glancing around. “Let’s just say you were living your best life.”
“Amore, what happened?” Ives’s voice made the social worker and the teen flinch and look toward its source. A moment later, the young man appeared in the entryway. “What took you so long?” He stared at the unexpected visitors. “Wh-who are these people?”
“Mary Johnson from Social Services, and Galen, Mister Sforza’s biological son whom he refuses to take responsibility for,” the woman responded, her voice laced with hostility. “This leaves me no choice but to take the boy into temporary custody and place him in a foster home.”
"You will not," Ottavio said coldly but calmly. “I've signed all the damn papers, and I’ll sign more if necessary, but for now, I want your big, fat ass off my property.” He handed the clipboardback to the social worker, who looked at him, a mix of anger and shock.
“Um… well, I guess I overstayed my welcome,” the social worker tried to be sarcastic, masking how intimidated she was by the change in the man’s voice and attitude. “One more thing: as I mentioned earlier, the boy’s maternal aunt and her husband, who raised him with love and care for eight years, are in a difficult financial situation, so they kept his clothes and toys for their two older children.”
Ottavio sighed impatiently. “By the end of the day, my son will have new clothes, toys, school supplies, and everything he needs,” he said, gesturing toward the social worker’s car at the end of the driveway. “Now, get off my property.”
CHAPTER 6
“I don’t need anything from you,” the boy, Galen, said, looking straight into Ottavio’s eyes, his voice steady and emotionless. “They were right. You don’t love me, and you don’t want me here. I…I don’t want to be here either.” The kid’s voice broke on the last few words.
“Tesoro, I swear on my father’s grave and on everything else I hold most dear that I had no idea of your existence.” Ottavio crouched in front of the boy, his voice soft and pained. “However, I promise to take care of you, protect you, and love you until my last breath.”
“Liar!” Galen almost shouted. “All you say is big, fat lies. I don’t want you; I want to go home. At least there, people don’t lie when they say they don’t love me.”
Ives gently patted his husband on the shoulder, who was about to ask the teen another question, and spoke in a calming voice. “These people are just plain mean. Even if what they said was true—which it isn’t—they had no right to say those terrible words to you. Now, can you tell me who those people are?”
“Jenna, my mom’s sister, and her husband, Bob. Sometimes, Lenny, their older son, joined the choir.” Galen stopped, fighting the lump in his throat. “They came to our house after Mom died and moved in, saying it was too big for a snot like me.”
“I know it’s not much help, but I’m truly sorry for what they told you,” Ives said softly, gently stroking the kid’s dark-brown, slightly wavy hair. “No one will ever insult you, shout at you, or punish you in this house. I will handle this personally. I promise.”
The young man’s words had an unexpected effect on Galen: he began to cry, first silently, then in intense, uncontrollable sobs that tore through his fragile body, making him shake andshiver like a leaf in the wind. He wanted to stop but couldn’t, and eventually he completely surrendered to the emotions he'd bottled up for the past eight years.
For a few seconds, Ottavio watched Galen in silence; he ached to comfort the boy, but was afraid—not of rejection, but of the unpredictable reaction the boy might have to the touch of someone he had come to hate with burning passion. He stayed that way, crouched and unsure of what to do, for a long while.
However, Ottavio couldn’t bear to see Galen like that—crying in the middle of the hallway, a statue of heartbreak and loneliness. He wrapped the boy in his strong arms and whispered words of reassurance and affection in his native language, unaware that the teen didn’t understand what he was saying.
If only I had asked Deanna for her phone number so we could talk from time to time, Ottavio said to himself, rubbing soothing circles on Galen’s back. If only I weren’t so hell-bent on teaching the heirs a lesson about what it’s like to be an illegitimate son, and above all, if only I weren’t caught up in this obsession with Luca, my son wouldn’t have suffered as he did.
His son... The words, though unspoken, echoed in Ottavio’s mind, stirring a storm of emotions within his soul. Clearly, fatherly love wasn’t new to him; he had felt it four months earlier, when he first held the triplets just minutes after they were born.
However, what Ottavio felt while comforting Galen was very different, in a way he wasn’t sure he could explain. Although the man didn’t fully realize it, the fatherly affection he felt for the boy he was desperately holding to his chest was mixed with guilt. He had a lot to process, but one thing was clear: the only person to blame for what had happened to his son, for all the cruelty he had endured, was himself.
The warmth from Ottavio’s body seeped into Galen’s, making him relax and sag against the man. As the sobs gradually died down, the boy’s eyelids grew heavy with sleep until he finally gave in, resting his head on the man’s shoulder and sighing, murmuring something unintelligible.
Ottavio stood, holding Galen gently in his arms, and began to climb the spiral staircase slowly and carefully so the boy wouldn’t wake. When he reached the first floor, he went to the room next to his and Ives’ bedroom, which was currently empty. To his great relief, the door was already open, and the bed was made, ready for the boy to have a restful and comfortable sleep.
With utmost care, Ottavio gently placed Galen on the bed, removed his shoes, and tucked him in. As he turned toward the door, a sound stopped him in his tracks. He returned to the bed, crouched, and listened intently. After a moment, the kid mumbled something unintelligible, then shifted restlessly.
For a couple of seconds, Ottavio just stood there, unsure of what to do. Galen had just fallen asleep, emotionally and maybe physically exhausted, and Ottavio couldn’t risk waking him and undoing his progress. However, he couldn’t resist seeing him like that any longer; he carefully reached out and caressed the kid’s forehead.
A cherished memory from his distant early childhood came to Ottavio’s mind, making him smile tenderly. In a barely audible, hesitant voice, he began to sing a Sicilian lullaby as old as time. All the women he knew, including his mother, used it to calm or soothe their little ones when they were scared or upset.
